


where I don't feel alone

by cyndakip



Series: the price of perfection [7]
Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Canada Moist Talkers (Blaseball Team), Dialogue Heavy, Gen, season 12
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 03:28:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29910759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyndakip/pseuds/cyndakip
Summary: Dot and Workman talk on the eve of the election.
Relationships: Workman Gloom & PolkaDot Patterson
Series: the price of perfection [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1969006
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	where I don't feel alone

**Author's Note:**

> Well, I channeled all my Dot-related stress into this before the election and was hoping I could post it under happier circumstances, but here we are! It's okay, though, losing Dot was inevitable and I know the Mechs will treat them well. I will cope by continuing to write angsty fics! (this one's not actually super angsty, I think? maybe?)
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not actually encourage the stealing of any players mentioned in this fic, including those on other teams. Just had to throw around some names in-universe for story purposes. Not a huge fan of stealing. (it's part of the game, obviously, and no hard feelings here, I promise, but. y'know. Don't want to give people any ideas, either.)
> 
> Also, that sure was a season the Talkers had, huh?
> 
> (CW for one brief mention of mild food crimes. Or food, at least. The crime is debatable.)
> 
> Title from To Build a Home by The Cinematic Orchestra.

Even after all this time, the world hasn’t stopped talking about Dot.

“Thoughts on Patterson?” The splortscaster is grinning on the TV screen, anticipating an interesting conversation.

“Patterson’s more of an  _ afterthought _ right now, if you ask me," her colleague says contemptuously. "Throwing over a hundred foul balls to a frog is entertaining enough, but it’s not what matters at the end of the day. Fact is, they’re not even close to topping all the leaderboards like they used to. If I’m looking to steal a pitcher, right now I’m looking at Pothos, Gonzales, maybe Wilcox --”

“Yeah, sure, but don’t forget there’s also the idol board. Patterson’s easy pickings, they never fall off there.”

Dot, running their hands through Beasley's fur, tries not to let their fingers tense up.

“Because the fans are stuck in the past! They’re not  _ the  _ star pitcher anymore, they’re  _ a _ star pitcher, and not even one of the better ones this season. Not even one of the better ones on their  _ team _ this season! Good pitched a perfect game and basically outperformed them in almost every way, except for their usual complete lack of walks. Heck, even the dog had a better ERA!”

Workman pokes their head in the room, affronted. “Did they just say  _ even the dog _ ?”

Beasley wags his tail, any offense he might have possibly felt forgotten at the sight of Workman.

“They didn’t mean it like that,” Dot says, scratching Beasley’s ears. "Everyone knows he’s a great pitcher, and, more importantly, the best boy.” They pause. “Should I be offended that you only objected to what they said about Beasley, and not me?”

“Those guys are  _ always _ talking spit about you. If I complained about all of it, I’d never shut up.” Workman plops themself down on the couch next to Dot, and Beasley quickly wiggles over a bit for twice the petting. “But maybe I should, so you don’t have to listen to this. I don’t know why you do it at all.”

“I like to be informed.” Dot says, still watching the screen.

“The Talkers as a whole didn’t have the season they should’ve,” the first splortscaster is saying. “You can’t pin their failure to make the postseason on Patterson.”

“I’m not, I’m just saying we idolize them too much. They’re not the future of blaseball.”

“They’re as great as they’ve ever been. Their stats have barely changed, and not for the worse.”

“Well, that’s the problem! They haven’t changed, so other pitchers are surpassing them. It’s a new era, and I don’t think they have much of a place in it.”

Workman finds the remote and slams the power button. “That’s not being informed, that’s being slandered.”

“Everything they said is true, though.” Dot says, though they don’t protest the screen going dark. “Except that we could have made the playoffs, if I had just won a couple more --” They notice Workman about to protest. “No, you don’t have to say it, I know. Win as a team, lose as a team. It’s just... I just wanted to win as a team, for once, before it was too late. For all of us. For you.”

Dot may never have a championship with the Talkers, but Workman will never have a championship at all. And titles aren’t everything, of course, but if anyone ever deserved it, it was Workman, and winning  _ for _ them is better than nothing, right?

“Hey, the Thieves already won one for me,” Workman points out. “And I did get to kill a god. You don’t owe me anything. You don’t owe the  _ team _ anything. You’ve given them so much already. They don’t mind if you lose.”

The team really doesn’t mind, and Dot knows it. Not anymore. Not now that they aren’t just there to pitch. Maybe there’s something to be said that now they’ve been focusing on more than just pitching, they haven’t been winning as much -- but they know it hasn’t made them weaker; if anything, it’s made them stronger in the way that matters. Their pitching hasn’t changed. It’s just… sometimes even the best isn’t enough. Sometimes you wake up and realize that you’re no longer the only one who can do what you do, and still no one can forget what you’ve been.

The world is different, now; it went on turning while Dot slept in the shell, and the other pitchers just kept getting better. Dot used to be untouchable, unstoppable, on a level no one else could reach. Now more and more of them have higher star rankings, accomplish things that even Dot has never done. Dot isn't jealous, of course they're not, they’re happy for the others, they love the competition, they’re glad to be a smaller target, but…

But.

Dot was made to be a perfect pitcher. To be the best. Their old life was burned away with the glow of those shining stars next to their name, and they can't get it back. Who are they, if the others catch up to them? What is their purpose, if not to shine the brightest, whether they want to or not?

And even if they no longer shine the brightest, they still shine enough to dazzle, to draw attention. A falling star is still a star, and soon enough, they’re going to land somewhere far from Halifax.

“Dot?”

Dot snaps to attention. “What?” 

Beasley twitches, startled, and they quickly whisper an apology, stroking his ears.

Workman frowns. “See, you shouldn’t be listening to all that. They’ve got you thinking about things you shouldn’t.”

“I would think about those things anyway. Especially today.”

“Hard not to think about it, I guess,” Workman sighs. “But they’re only making it worse.”

“It is… almost reassuring, actually. To hear them say I am no longer the best. For a moment, I can almost believe nobody will try too hard to steal me.”

They do not have many moments left, though.

“You might not get stolen. You’ve survived a lot of elections.”

“More than I should have. We know the Wills are more dangerous. They will get me, if not this time, then eventually.”

It's not just Dot they want to get, either. York. CV. Alston. Fish. Maybe even Jenkins, now. Maybe even  _ Beasley _ . None of them are safe, really. Never mind that they couldn't even make the playoffs; anyone could still be exchanged for any reason, the team broken apart and scattered to the winds.

Dot won’t be able to simply walk out of their apartment building and head over to check on the teens, or plan strategy with Ziwa, or work out with Fish, or --

“If they do get you, the Talkers can get you back,” Workman says firmly. “You'll come back sooner or later, if Wills are staying. And even until then, you can still come back. They can't stop you from spending time here.”

“I know. I only have to go to my own games. No need to be there any longer than I have to.” One of the benefits of being a pitcher, at least.

“But you will try, right?”

“Try?”

“To connect with whatever team you end up on. To make some friends. If you're going to be there, make the best of it, even if you're going to leave. Even if you'll end up coming back here and staying forever. Being traded doesn’t have to be entirely bad. Beasley and I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

“I… I... it's not that easy. I can't just -- I can’t.” 

“I don't want you to be miserable,” Workman says with concern. “I've seen you at your most distant, and I don't ever want to see you like that again.” 

“You wouldn't see it. It wouldn't be so bad, if you were there.”

“That's not my point.”

Dot picks at a loose thread on the couch. “Wherever I go, it will be because they  _ stole _ me. Because having a star pitcher is more important than anything the star pitcher might feel. That's how blaseball works. I don't get to stop and make friends. I will be gone soon enough.”

“That's what you thought when you joined the Talkers.”

“Another team can’t be the Talkers.” 

The Talkers weren’t supposed to be what they’ve become to Dot, either, but it’s far too late to change that. And they wouldn’t even if they could. 

“And you know I'll never get to stay that long anywhere else,” they continue. “It's different, now. Easier to be stolen.”

“Don't you want a good relationship with the teams while you're there, if you have to be there at all? We've both had to learn to adjust to new teams. You can do it again.”

Dot rips the thread out entirely. “What I want doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me.”

“What you want doesn't matter, either. It can't stop me from leaving.”

Beasley nudges Dot, who quickly resumes the petting. 

“No,” Workman says. “It can't. We've never been able to stop them taking us, we know that. I just want you to try to make the best of whatever happens.”

And that's what Workman does. Feedbacked, incinerated, brought back to kill a god and then freed from the splort that so many are still trapped in, and through it all, they've tried so hard to make the best of it.

It doesn't always work. But. They try.

“I'm not you,” Dot says sharply. “It took you a while to adjust to the Talkers, but me -- I'm not -- I don't -- it took me so long, just to get to where I am, and now they want to take it all away.”

Dot doesn’t want to turn away again, to shut themselves off from everyone again, to go back to that solitude from before the unshelling, but what if they don’t have a choice? It’s all well and good to believe that they can handle leaving, flourish on another new team as more than just a pitcher, but what if they just... can’t?

“You don't have to lose everything. I know it won’t be easy, but I don't want to be any harder than it has to.” Workman hesitates. “You… you saw me after I got feedbacked. You know it wasn’t easy. But I got through it.”

Beasley whines, and Workman pats his side in reassurance. “It’s okay, Beas. We’re here now.”

Against all odds, they’re here.

“I…” Dot slumps, defeated. “I don't know. I can't promise anything. But I... I apologize. I do not want to argue. Not now.”

Workman raises an eyebrow, seeming almost amused. “You want to argue later, though?”

“I suppose I could,” Dot says, caught off guard and having to suppress an almost-smile. “If you wouldn't mind.”

“Sure, anytime. Any subject. No matter where you are. Call me up from halfway around the world just to tell me that pineapple belongs on pizza, and I'll tell you why you're wrong.”

“I do not have any strong opinions on pizza toppings.” 

“Being willing to eat pineapple pizza at all is enough of an opinion. Also, it worries me that you can still say that after witnessing some of CV's cursed creations.”

“I thought we were arguing later?”

“Right. Sorry. Rescheduling the food crime discussion and all other arguments of varying seriousness for sometime in the future.”

“I am sorry, though,” Dot says after a moment. “I know you’re trying to help. I’m just… not ready. To have to do that yet.”

“No, I get it. I don’t want to push you. And I don’t want you to go, but I want you to be okay if you do.”

“ _ When _ I do.”

“...Yeah. Maybe. But no matter what, you'll always have a home in Halifax. Just like Beasley and I will always have a home in Charleston.”

Beasley thumps his tail against Workman’s legs at the mention of his name. Or at the mention of Charleston. Or because he's just happy to be here. Possibly all of the above.

“Yes. But Charleston has always been more of a home to you than Halifax has been to me.”

“Hey. Just because you’ve had to work harder to find it doesn't make it any less of a home.” 

And Dot has worked hard, first to avoid it, and then to embrace it. Because somewhere along the way, it had become impossible to pretend that they don't care. That they don't want anyone else to care, either. It had become easier to show up to practices and team gatherings, easier to have conversations that weren't short and exclusively about the game, easier to be a Dot who was, just maybe, someone who could be more than a pitcher.

But that's not what the other teams want. They want nothing but the best, a star, an unstoppable pitcher. They want the perfect idea of PolkaDot Patterson. It doesn't matter that Dot is trying to build a life beyond that; blaseball has no sympathy for what it might take from them. It only takes, and takes, and takes, and soon it will take Dot again.

What will their new teammates think? How long will it take everyone to see past the pitcher? Will they even be around long enough for that to happen? Will they all flinch away from Dot’s squiddish appearance, the touch of their strange tentacle-hands, which Beasley and Workman and York and, now, even the other Talkers never seem to mind? Could Dot even open up like that to anyone else, after it took so many seasons here? Or would it be easier, now?

Not all that long ago, they wouldn't have thought something like this was possible. But over the siesta, they've managed to go from sitting on the opposite end of the couch from Workman to sitting right next to them, no more space in between, slowly learning not to spend every moment questioning whether this is something they deserve.

“Dot?”

“Sorry,” they say, snapping back into the moment. Workman’s looking at them. Concerned. “I was just thinking.”

“You’re doing too much of that today.”

“Maybe,” Dot agrees. “But I was thinking something pretty important, this time.”

“Oh?”

No more space in between. For a little while longer still, at least. Dot shifts even closer, rests their head on Workman's shoulder. An action that was once terrifying, but has gradually become safe, comforting. Because they don’t not deserve this. Workman doesn’t mind what they are, and neither does Beasley, who happily snuggles closer, too.

“I never really said thank you,” Dot says softly. “For helping me find home.”

“You did. It’s not the kind of thing that needs saying in words.” Workman’s smiling. Dot can feel it. “But we can say it anyway. You’re welcome. And thank you, too.”

And then they don’t say much else; they just sit there, the three of them, in this moment that may be the last they get for a while. Dot can’t pretend that it will all be okay, but they can hope, at least, that they will get to come back to this.

Home, Dot has come to realize, is not necessarily a place. 

It doesn't make leaving any easier.

**Author's Note:**

> Dot will be okay on the Mechanics, I think. They'll adapt, and so will I, and whatever happens, I will continue to write about it! Take good care of them for me, Mechs <3


End file.
